


Red and Gold

by justanotherStonyfan



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Body Worship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-21
Updated: 2014-09-21
Packaged: 2018-02-18 06:55:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2339261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justanotherStonyfan/pseuds/justanotherStonyfan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tony has two very obviously favorite colors - for more reasons than the suit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Red and Gold

There's an awful lot Tony likes about Steve – an awful lot. And if he took the time to think about it, he could probably write a book or two about it – one each for his face and his body and his hands and his cock and the noises he makes and the initiative he takes. 

But right now there's only a couple of things he's focusing on because the red silk sheets were a good call – one hell of a good call – and Steve is lying temporarily exhausted on top of them.

Tony will never, ever, get tired of this. Of glittering skin and the wrinkles in the sheets where Steve was gripping them, and the sweaty strands of hair that stick to his forehead or the way his gorgeous mouth is still open and gasping because Steve is beautiful, painfully beautiful, in that untouchable, hewn-from-marble, sculpted by angels kind of way. Nothing about him is imperfect. Nothing is out of proportion, nothing is scarred, there's only Steve, only muscle and skin and the little things that make Steve who he is and right now, immediately post-mind-shattering-orgasm, Steve's cock hasn't fully softened, the flush hasn't fully faded from his neck and chest, the sweat hasn't yet dried on his forehead and his upper lip, and thick, pale liquid still clings to him in lines and drops Tony hasn't yet licked dry.

“Look at you,” he says, because he really could watch Steve for the rest of time. It would be so easy, especially if he's permitted to touch. 

Steve's eyes don't open yet – he's not ready to open them yet and Tony's not surprised; it's always good. He's said before that it terrified him the first time after the serum – the strength of his own grip, the intensity of his own orgasm. Because there's more strength in Steve's muscles, more heat in Steve's skin, he comes harder than Tony ever could, and it still knocks him sideways with the force of it, Tony can tell just from the look on his face. He doesn't smile. He always wears this helpless, desperate, pained expression, like he's not sure his body can take it, like he's never expecting it, as though the first word on his lips might be a hopeless, horrified _wait!_. But he never says it and it's always, always good. 

“God, you're unbelievable,” and he's all color and strength and Tony can live without seeing his eyes now even if he can't the rest of the time. Steve likes to see, likes to watch Tony, likes to look into Tony's eyes and Tony's fine with that just because it means he gets to see Steve's eyes too. But the rest of him...

Steve's skin is so pale, made for marking and Tony can, as much as he likes – Steve's bruises and hickeys and bite marks and stubble burn will heal in hours if not minutes. And Steve _likes_ it, Steve asks for it. His skin is pale and looks thin though it's far from it, a creamy softness that Tony likes to touch, likes to stroke, likes to interrupt with crimson and violet and oh, Steve's skin.

It's like a canvas, so much smoother than Tony ever expected, so much softer in places and tighter in others and pale in a way that makes Tony's head spin – makes him look fragile and delicate even though he's not, and Steve's mentioned it before. About how that was how he used to be, how the pallor and fragility once went together and the serum healed the scars without changing his color. There's something stupidly, unbelievably attractive about how pale Steve is.

Tony runs his hands over Steve's skin, spends hours just staring at the contrast between Steve's skin and his own, and he watches and traces the lines and dips of muscles and tendons. It's paler than Tony's by quite a way but it's hotter too, and Tony's fascinated by Steve's skin. It glitters often – Steve sweats more than anyone Tony's ever met. But he's clean and he's strong and he always smells like Steve instead of sweat, and it means his skin sparkles like it's covered in diamonds, it means Tony can follow the great rolling drops with his tongue, it means Steve's skin is slick until it dries and the flush that comes up on him, the beautiful blush he gets when he knows Tony's staring, or when he tries to be shameless but can't quite shake the embarrassment, or when he's working hard or playing harder, it's so bright and so widespread and it happens so _often_ that Tony's surprised nobody else sees it when they're in the field. 

It sounds like a cliché but it's there and it's real, from the tips of his ears when he's frustrated, high on his cheekbones when he's hurt and low on his cheekbones when they fight, to the flush on his neck when he's angry, the spread of it across his chest when he's turned on or pumped up. But what Tony loves about it, what Tony truly adores about it, is the way that flush is always present when they're in bed together, the way it fluctuates when Steve's body shifts, his level of awareness changes, and the way it burns so bright and so suddenly when Steve comes that Tony wasn't sure what had happened the first time. 

It's like a firework, like a burst of color, like a light goes on under Steve's skin all the way down his body from the tips of his ears to the tip of his cock, and it lasts for the length of a snap of Tony's fingers as Steve comes, to fade as he comes down. But it's bright and hot and absolutely beautiful and it goes hand in hand with every orgasm Steve has, the way he flings his head back and writhes, the noises when he comes that change every time - it sounds like he's been punched in the stomach, or slowly torn in two, and Tony's name gets in there sometimes which is more than enough to give him a hard on if he doesn't have one already.

It's the lack of control, it's the bone-deep need and the instinctual response that Steve only trusts Tony with. It's rose-red on the pale cream of Steve's chest, and Tony likes to follow it as best he can, imagines he can taste it because he certainly feels the heat under his lips.

And the red on Steve, that beautiful contrast his own body shows, is something Tony wishes he could keep forever in a locket over his heart. The changing blush on his chest, over his sternum, the bitten-red of his already-red lips – Steve already has the reddest lips Tony's ever seen and when he wets them with a dart of his pink tongue, it's all Tony can do not to follow it with his own.

It's better like this, when Steve's had all he can take for the moment and every part of him is oversensitive, when the slightest touch has his eyes fluttering closed, long tan lashes sweeping down over his high cheekbones as his fingers curl and his feet scrabble on the mattress. If Tony persists – and he doesn't often, Steve thrashes too much – the result is nothing short of gorgeous, a desperate warring need to continue and stop, enough to make him cry out and beg, enough to overwhelm him.

It's an endless amount of fun to watch, though.

And the flush of blood, the red on white, it's not limited to Steve's lips and tongue, to the full-body blush. It's everywhere if Tony looks for it and he does, he always does. It's like an Amaryllis, white with the shock of red blooming up out of him, but it's bright and hot and sharp on his body – the head of his cock when he needs to come, the never-quite-fully-stretched tightness around Tony's fingers, it's red, so red, and Tony loves it, loves all of it.

And if anybody ever told him he'd have a fixation he might have laughed in their face. Or he might have thought back to every night and afternoon and break-from-studying he'd ever spent staring at the faded figure with a wrong-hand salute and a pair of cornball wings on the side of his head, and sparkling blue eyes over a wry grin and Tony remembers watching it watching him, imagining the twist of those beautiful red lips and how they'd taste as they smiled for him, how those eyes would darken. Never in his life would he have dreamed that he'd get to find out – or that the _man_ in _person_ would be so much more attractive than the poster.

How was that even possible when the poster was the most beautiful man Tony had ever seen?

But there Steve is, and now Tony knows that there was nothing constructed about those posters, that there was nothing exaggerated about the width of Steve's shoulders, the breadth of his chest, that the only thing they got wrong was how narrow his hips really should have been – but who would have believed it if they'd drawn that ratio for real?

Still, as good as he looks in the suit, Tony likes him better out of it. Likes seeing those muscles uncovered, likes touching that skin with his own instead of through fabric. Steve's responsive, so responsive, more than Tony ever imagined he could be and that's something that surprised them – papercuts are like stab wounds to Steve without adrenalin. He comes off worst post-battle but he says it's all in proportion. His pain threshold might have been raised, but so was his sensitivity, and the healing factor makes up for it. Like SHIELD insist Steve's lifespan should be normal – he runs four times faster but the serum heals him four times as quickly; they cancel each other out.

And pain is relative, Steve says. Pain is subjective. Pain is necessary and he can ignore it until he's safe, but there are upsides, too. Like the fact that all Tony has to do is breathe cool air over Steve's nipples to get his chest to rise and his shoulders to shift, all Tony has to do is make sure his tongue flickers out over one, barely touching, to get Steve to gasp and moan at him, all he has to do is seal his lips over one, the way he kisses Steve's mouth, and Steve's hands come up to his head, Steve's body arches up against him. If Tony gives him the hint of teeth, too, he's hard in an instant, breathless, whispered pleas tumbling from lips he'll already have bitten until they're swollen.

Tony really likes to work Steve up into a frenzy because he genuinely seems to forget that he's got strength behind him now. He twists and squirms but his fingers are gentle, his words are soft. Tony spends an age every time he gets the chance kneeling on the mattress between Steve's legs, playing with his nipples until he's arching and begging, because he _can_ , and Steve just writhes with his hands up by his head on the pillow, or gripping the sheets as though he doesn't dare touch Tony, as though he doesn't realize that he's huge and broad and could snap Tony in half if he wanted.

He never had that before, Steve says. There's never been anything to reduce him to only himself the way Tony does – there's no Captain America, there's no Supersoldier, there's only little Steve Rogers and Tony likes little Steve Rogers at his mercy. 

The pads of Tony's thumbs are rough and calloused, and Steve babbles at him when Tony circles his nipples, eyes shut tight when he drags his thumbs across them, hissing through his teeth when Tony pinches them, crying out when he soothes with the flat of his tongue and they harden under Tony's hands, Tony's mouth. The flesh draws tight and darkens, goes red where it was pale before as he tosses his gold head back again, and Tony thinks sometimes Steve could come from that, Steve could come if Tony took long enough in his manipulations. He gets halfway there at least as it is, and Tony would love that. To watch him writhe and hear him cry out for release and give it without ever touching him, provide it with nothing more than his mouth over Steve's heart. 

But he takes pity eventually, as the Sun sinks low on the horizon so that it's already nighttime on the streets so far below them, clever hands and mouth against strength and power, proving stronger and more powerful even than this. 

And Steve gasps and sighs and whines and moans, and is red, and is gold, and is beautiful.

**Author's Note:**

> Notice any typos or grammatical errors? [Message me on tumblr and let me know!](http://justanotherstonyfan.tumblr.com/ask)


End file.
